by Joyce Armor
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shanley said smoothly as he carefully opened a drawer and began to reach inside. “I’ve been here all day.”
“Pick up that gun and you’re a dead man,” the sheriff said.
Shanley sighed and pulled his hand back. “My girls will vouch for me.”
“We’ll sort that out at your trial.”
“Aye, and they won’t be so afraid of ye once ye’re behind bars and cannae beat on them. I wager quite a few will be delighted to turn on ye.”
Just then Carrie appeared in the doorway. She was holding a gun.
“Shoot them, Carrie,” Shanley said calmly, as if he might be telling her to take out the trash.
Duncan looked at the woman, who had him dead to rights. He had treated her for syphilis. “He tried to kill me wife, Carrie. Stabbed her seven times.”
“I…I didn’t know when I told him you were in town. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The gun was shaking in her hand and could go off any time. Duncan briefly wondered what Sophie would think if he was shot by a whore in a bordello. He almost smiled.
Shanley stood. “Shoot. Them. Now.”
It was a standoff until all of a sudden Carrie took one step between the two men. Before either of them had a chance to grab her gun, she shot Shanley. His eyes widened in shock as he crumpled to the floor, hitting his chin on the desk on his way down. The sheriff gently removed the gun from Carrie’s hand, which was still shaking.
Duncan checked Shanley and realized if he wasn’t dead he would be soon, the blood spreading from his chest wound across the carpet. He touched his carotid artery and felt no pulse. Shamefully, he still wanted to punch the man even though he was dead. He looked at the sheriff and shook his head.
“A clear case of self-defense, isnae it?”
The sheriff looked at Carrie, whose eyes were wide in fright and maybe a little bit of guilt. “Obviously.”
She sighed in relief. The two men holstered their guns as several women crowded around the doorway, trying to peer inside. “I’ll send someone to pick up the body. You need to come with me now, Carrie, to give your statement. You too, Duncan.”
He ushered the women out of the room and closed the door.
“No one is to go in this room until we clear it. It’s a crime scene.” Then he looked at the frightened face of Carrie. “That’s just a label. You didn’t commit a crime.”
“And the business is closed,” Duncan added.
As the three made their way outside, a wiry young man ran up. It was Wiley Frome, who sometimes acted as a deputy. His clothes always draped off his body like they were too big for him. “There you are, Sheriff. And Doc. Thank God. Your wife is in labor, Sheriff, and says the babe is coming.”
Duncan was torn. He wanted to get back to Sophie. He realized she was in good hands, though. Ainsley knew all the basic healing arts and more. The sheriff turned to the Scotsman, understanding his dilemma.
“Let’s go, Brian,” Duncan smiled and the father-to-be smiled in relief. He turned to Wiley.
“Charles Shanley is dead. I’ll send Horace to pick up the body. Meanwhile, Wiley, you sit in his office and guard it. Don’t let any of the women in. Make sure no one goes through his papers or gets to the safe.”
“Oh…but…me?” Wiley looked aghast.
Duncan smiled. “They will nae bite ye, Wiley.”
“Unless you want them to,” the sheriff said under his breath, and Duncan had to suck in the sides of his cheeks to keep from laughing. Then Sutcliffe turned to the young man. “You can do this. I’m counting on you.”
Wiley started toward the bordello as if he were marching to his funeral. The two men took one last amused look at him and then started jogging. Carrie, not knowing what to do, ran after them.
Thirty minutes later, May-Ling Sutcliffe gave birth to Anabelle May Sutcliffe, the proud sheriff’s little princess. Duncan gave instructions to the healthy mother and child and congratulated the happy father. He nodded at Carrie, who was sitting uncomfortably in the parlor. He was not happy she had told Shanley he was in town, which set the attack on Sophie in motion, but he understood how Shanley’s women were beaten down and knew he had already forgiven her, especially since it could have gone all wrong in Shanley’s office.
He hurried toward his horse, the faithful Rob. Worried and tired to the bone, he mounted and turned toward home. Home. It truly is where the heart is. And Duncan knew, without question, his heart was with Sophie. He loved her. And it wasn’t an immature, selfish love as he had shared with Catriona. It was the kind of devotion that made him want to make her happy and made him want to be the best version of himself he could be.
Sophie seemed to be recovering. Obviously in pain, she stubbornly refused to take any more laudanum, saying it made her head “woozy” and didn’t do much for her stomach either. She slept a great deal that first day and apologized several times for the cake she never got to bake. He held her hand and told her of Shanley’s demise, assuring her she was safe now. He saw the ease in her face at the news. She never could hide her feelings very well. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but thought to wait until she was feeling better. He didnae want her to think it was a pity declaration.
And then she wasn’t feeling better at all. She was feeling worse. The fever struck that night and raged. Sophie was holding her own when Ainsley finally convinced him to climb into the loft and get some much needed sleep. When she woke him up six hours later, Sophie was burning up and delirious, babbling about her father’s pocket knife, her cousin Per and an armoire. She even said a few phrases in French. He almost blushed when she began mumbling about his sexy chest hair. And then she cried out.
“Don’t! Oh, God! No! Duncan, help! It hurts. It hurts.”
He gently swept her into his arms then as she shook, rubbing her back until she quieted and fell back to sleep. Duncan had tried everything he could think of to bring her temperature down—cold compresses, willow bark tea, rubbing her down with alcohol. Finally he called Ainsley to help him prepare a cool bath. Sophie struggled weakly as they lowered her into the tub but settled down once she was in. With Ainsley’s help, he bathed her since she was already in the tub, even washing her hair. Once she was out and dried, he replaced all her wet bandages with dry ones.
Duncan sent Ainsley out on several minor medical calls. She was adept at stitching and basic first aid. He would ne’er leave the ranch again if that’s what it took to keep his wife alive. In the following two days, they put Sophie in the tub of cool water three more times and at last, at last, the fever abated. Duncan, as done-in as he’d ever been, slept at her side. He had tried to be careful about not touching her, so as not to bring her any more warmth or pain. It was hard, though. She was his Sophie, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her and ne’er let her go.
Three days after the fever struck, Sophie slowly opened her eyes. It was an effort, and it took her a few moments to figure out where she was and what had happened. Then it came back to her. Shanley! She had some vague memory of Duncan telling her that the horrible man was dead. It was an unkind thought, but she hoped she hadn’t dreamt that and that he would stay dead. She ached everywhere. Not a piercing pain as it had been the last time she was awake, though. When was that? She had no idea. She carefully turned her head to see if Duncan was sitting in the chair by the bed and was disappointed to see the chair was empty.
Then she felt a movement in the bed and painstakingly turned her head the other way. And there he was, the precious man who saved her life. Not just by applying his stellar doctoring skills. And not just in saving her from Shanley. Duncan MacGibbon had somehow resurrected her spirit and brought out all the love she had held in her heart for so long. His auburn hair was getting long, she noticed as she moved a lock of it off his forehead. Just that simple motion awakened him, and he sat up so quickly it made her laugh.
He looked at her and grinned. “Sophie.”
He made the word sound like some kind
of blessing.
“Duncan.” She tried to say it with the same feeling.
He placed a hand on her forehead. “Yer fever’s gone.”
“Aye,” she said, and he smiled.
He got up, and she saw he wore only his smalls. Perhaps it should have shocked her, yet it didn’t. He was a beautiful man, dressed or nearly naked. She could only assume he would be equally or more lovely nude.
“I need to check yer wounds, love.”
Love? Well, that’s just a colloquialism, like hon.”
She smiled. “Don’t you think you should put some pants on, in case Ainsley or the sheriff shows up?”
He looked down as if just remembering he wasn’t dressed. “Aye. I suppose yer right.” He reached over and grabbed his trousers and quickly put them on. He started toward her, but she stopped him. “If you don’t put a shirt on, I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate.”
He smiled an incredibly sexy smile and opened a bureau drawer, pulling out a white shirt. She watched as he buttoned it up, finding the action somehow enthralling. When he had finished the entertaining task, one by one he removed the bandages from each wound, covered each in salve and placed new, smaller bandages on the affected areas. When he unwrapped her hand, he kissed the healing cut, sending chills up her spine. When he looked in her eyes, he saw all the love he felt reflected back. Swiftly but oh-so-gently he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, softly at first and then more urgently. Debilitated as she was, she kissed him back with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
Before he ripped her nightgown, which was already down at her waist so he could treat her wounds, right off her body, Duncan released her and took a deep breath.
“Sophie,” he said.
“Duncan,” she replied.
He sighed. “I lied to ye, lassie.”
Her eyes took on a panicked look, and he decided not to draw it out. He grabbed her uninjured hand in both of his meaty hands. “I told ye I cannae love ye, but is nae true. I do love ye, Sophie, with all my heart.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and for an instant Duncan feared she was going to tell him she couldn’t love him back. And then, of course, she said the unexpected.
“Well, it’s aboot time you realized that, my bonny highlander.”
He grinned. “And donnae ye want to say something back to me, lassie?”
“Hmm…what would that be? Oh, would you bandage my hand, please?”
Smiling, he rubbed some salve on her hand in an incredibly sexy way that had her heart rate climbing dangerously. As he wrapped her hand in a clean bandage, she watched him. She loved his hands and his forearms. And his chest. God, she loved his chest. And his tight arse. In fact, there wasn’t any part of him she didn’t love. She looked at his eyes and realized he was staring at her.
“Oh,” she smiled. “And I love you, too. I think I’ve loved you ever since I hit you in the head with my corset.”
He burst out laughing and hugged her again, careful not to put pressure on her wounds.
Two days later Sophie was restless, tired of lying in bed. She was about to defy Duncan’s orders and get up when Ainsley walked in and plopped herself down in the chair.
“Ye’re looking a lot better than ye did.”
“Aye, I feel much better. I think I’m ready to milk the cow.”
“Duncan’ll shoot me if I let ye get oop today.”
“That could solve one of my problems,” Sophie said with a twinkle in her eye.
“I…I…” Ainsley looked down. It was obvious she was struggling with what she wanted to say. “I would nae blame ye if ye wanted me to leave.”
“Ainsley, you will have a home here as long as you’d like. You can be my spinster sister if you want and raise cats.”
Ainsley looked aghast. “Cats?”
“Or elephants. I don’t care.”
Ainsley leaned forward. “Why have ye always been so nice to me?”
Sophie thought about that for a moment. “I know what it’s like to be young and angry and feel as if everything is out of your control.”
Ainsley stood and looked down at Sophie. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
“Don’t worry about it. When I’m all better we’ll ride the range and feed the cattle and bake cakes and…”
“Donnae count on it,” Ainsley said, somewhat horrified, and strode out in her denim breeches, her long flannel shirt flapping behind her. She passed Duncan on her way out.
He looked at Sophie questioningly, and she just laughed and waved him off. Then she swung her legs to the side of the bed.
“What are ye doing?”
“I’m getting up.”
“Yer physician has ordered ye to stay in bed another day.”
“My physician is pig-headed and overprotective. I’m getting up before I go crazy and explode from boredom. Please, Duncan. I just want to sit on the porch and see a bird. Or a horse. Or even a fly. And I want to take a hot bath. I want a muffin.”
She eased herself out of the bed. When her feet hit the floor, she was stunned at how weak her legs felt. They barely held her up. He lunged forward and supported her around the waist. “All right, lassie. Ye win. Ye can have the bath. I think I can help ye see a bird and a horse. I’ll even bring ye a fly. I’m sorry to tell ye I cannae make muffins.”
She laughed. Twenty minutes later he helped ease her into the copper tub. “Shouldn’t we take off the bandages first?”
“Nay, let them protect the wounds. I’ll change them when ye’re done.”
She let out a prolonged “ahhh” until he poured a pitcher of warm water on her head.
She sputtered and gasped as she tried to sit up. He held her in place with a hand on her uninjured shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m washing yer hair.”
“I can do that. I’m not an invalid. Anymore, anyway.”
He smiled. “I can do it better.”
And he did. She could not believe how wonderful it felt. “That…that almost feels erotic,” she said dreamily.
“Lassie, Scottish men are born erotic.”
“That’s kind of a creepy thought,” she said and he laughed.
Forty minutes later, he had washed and dried her and replaced all her bandaging. She tried to hide how tired she felt. It was a good tired, though. And then her highland hero lay down in the bed with her, pulling her back against his growing erection. And suddenly she no longer felt tired, and if she didn’t think about her wounds, they didn’t hurt. And she definitely was not thinking of them now. She wiggled a bit to make sure Duncan’s nether parts were dutifully engaged, then turned around and faced him.
“Sophie,” was all he said.
She leaned in and kissed him with all the love she felt for him and he responded in kind. With the utmost tenderness and care for her healing wounds, the Scotsman then made gentle and prolonged love to the mail-order bride of his dreams.
Epilogue
One year later
“One more push, lassie. Ye can do it.”
“Yeah, I’d like to push you, Duncan MacGibbon. Arrrgh!”
“That’s it, that’s it, Sophie, keep it up.”
That led to several more unseemly grunts and finally a shout from Duncan. Ye’ve given me a fine son, Sophie love. He’s a big one, too.”
“Yeah,” she said weakly. “Don’t I know it.”
There was a moment of sheer panic when she didn’t hear the baby, and then he led out a wail and she grinned.
“What shall we name the braw lad?”
Sophie, exhausted but beyond happy, thought for a moment. “How about Morgan?”
His heart clenched. “Aye, lassie.”
Her stalwart highlander had tears in his eyes, which only made her love him more.
“Your father’s name is Alasdair?”
“Aye.”
“Morgan Alasdair MacGibbon.”
“What is yer father’s name?”
“Ichabod.”
<
br /> “Morgan Alasdair MacGibbon it is.”
She laughed and then groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. My stomach muscles hurt.”
“This will get better soon, my love. Then we can start making Morgan’s brother.”
“Och, don’t even think it when I’m still suffering from all you put me through.”
He smiled. “Morgan Alasdair MacGibbon. ‘Tis a powerful name for such a fine laddie.”
He cut the cord, wrapped the baby in a soft yellow blanket and handed him to his wife, who never looked more beautiful, with her hair plastered against her cheek and her nightgown covered in sweat. Her eyes shone with love for the baby and for him and he sent it back to her tenfold.
He softly brushed a hand over the babe’s auburn hair.
“May-Ling gave me this blanket,” Sophie smiled. “Morgan and Anabelle will be playmates. Maybe they’ll even get married.”
“Ye’re marrying the poor lad off when he’s barely 10 minutes old?”
“I just want him to be happy.”
“Aye. He should be as sore glad as I am.”
He often thought back to that fateful stagecoach ride that changed both their lives and knew in his heart it was meant to be. Predestene, as the Scots would say.
Sophie had recovered fully from her injuries, and even the scars were fading. She hadn’t had a nightmare about the attack in months. Ainsley had come around, accepting Sophie as part of the family. She still had her moments of rebellion but was growing into a lovely young woman. A fine, young breeches-clad woman.
As Sophie lay thinking of her good fortune and how right her move to Nebraska had been, she flashed on her two cousins and the pledge they had made to each find a way to leave Pennsylvania. And she remembered the letter she had received from her cousin Lindy two months ago. She had read it often enough.
My dear cousin and friend,
You must have heard by now of Per’s adventures in the Oregon wilderness. I cannot imagine what she was thinking.
I know how happy you are with your Scotsman and with a precious baby on the way, and you and Per give me the courage to not just talk about leaving Pennsylvania but to actually do it. It’s not the same here without you two.
